The Face of a Stranger (25 page)

"He was killed very violently—there was a passion of hatred in the
way he was beaten.'' He was looking at her closely and she was startled by the
intelligence in his face; it was uncomfortably intense, and unexpected. "I
believe it was someone who knew him. One does not hate a stranger as he was
hated.''

She shivered. Horrific as was the battlefield, there was still a world
of difference between its mindless carnage

and the acutely personal malevolence of Joscelin Grey's death.

"I am sorry," she said more gently, but still with the
stiffness he engendered in her. "I know nothing of him that would help you
find such a relationship. If I did I should tell you. The hospital kept
records; you would be able to find out who else was there at the same time, but
no doubt you have already done that—" She saw instantly from the shadow in
his face that he had not. Her patience broke. “Then for heaven's sake, what
have you been doing for eight weeks?"

"For five of them I was lying injured myself," he snapped
back. "Or recovering. You make far too many assumptions, madame. You are
arrogant, domineering, ill-tempered and condescending. And you leap to
conclusions for which you have no foundation. God! I hate clever women!"

She froze for an instant before the reply was on her lips.

"I love clever men!" Her eyes raked him up and down. "It
seems we are both to be disappointed." And with that she picked up her
skirts and strode past him and along the path towards the copse, tripping over
a bramble across her way. "Drat,"'she swore furiously.
"Hellfire."

7

“Good
morning, Miss Latterly," Fabia said coolly when she came into the sitting
room at about quarter past ten the following day. She looked smart and fragile
and was already dressed as if to go out. She eyed Hester very briefly, noting
her extremely plain muslin gown, and then turned to Rosamond, who was sitting
poking apologetically at an embroidery frame. "Good morning, Rosamond. I
hope you are well? It is a most pleasant day, and I believe we should take the
opportunity to visit some of the less fortunate in the village. We have not
been lately, and it is your duty, my dear, even more than it is mine."

The color deepened a trifle in Rosamond's cheeks as she accepted the
rebuke. From the quick lift in her chin Hester thought there might be far more
behind the motion than was apparent. The family was in mourning, and Fabia had
quite obviously felt the loss most keenly, at least to the outward eye. Had
Rosamond tried to resume life too quickly for her, and this was Fabia's way of
choosing the time?

"Of course, Mama-in-law," Rosamond said without looking up.

"And no doubt Miss Latterly will come with us," Fabia added
without consulting her. "We shall leave at eleven.

That will allow you time to dress appropriately. The day is most warm—do
not be tempted to forget your position." And with that admonition,
delivered with a frozen smile, she turned and left them, stopping by the door
for a moment to add, "And we might take luncheon with General Wadham, and
Ursula." And then she went out.

Rosamond threw the hoop at her workbasket and it went beyond and
skittered across the floor. "Drat," she said quietly under her
breath. Then she met Hester's eyes and apologized.

Hester smiled at her. "Please don't," she said candidly.
"Playing Lady Bountiful 'round the estates is enough to make anyone resort
to language better for the stable, or even the barracks, than the drawing room.
A simple 'drat' is very mild."

"Do you miss the Crimea, now you are home?" Rosamond said
suddenly, her eyes intent and almost frightened of the answer. "I
mean—" She looked away, embarrassed and now finding it hard to speak the
words which only a moment before had been so ready.

Hester saw a vision of endless days being polite to Fa-bia, attending to
the trivial household management that she was allowed, never feeling it was her
house until Fabia was dead; and perhaps even afterwards Fabia's spirit would
haunt the house, her belongings, her choices of furniture, of design, marking
it indelibly. There would be morning calls, luncheon with suitable people of
like breeding and position, visits to the poor—and in season there would be
balls, the races at Ascot, the regatta at Henley, and of course in winter the
hunt. None of it would be more than pleasant at best, tedious at worst—but
without meaning.

But Rosamond did not deserve a lie, even in her loneliness—nor did she
deserve the pain of Hester's view of the truth. It was only her view; for
Rosamond it might be different.

"Oh yes, sometimes I do," she said with a small smile.
"But we cannot fight wars like that for long. It is very dreadful as well
as vivid and real. It is not fun being cold

and dirty and so tired you feel as if you've been beaten— nor is it
pleasant to eat army rations. It is one of the finest things in life to be
truly useful—but there are less distressing places to do it, and I am sure I
shall find many here in England."

"You are very kind," Rosamond said gently, meeting her eyes
again. "I admit I had not imagined you would be so thoughtful." She
rose to her feet. "Now I suppose we had better change into suitable
clothes for calling—have you something modest and dowdy, but very
dignified?" She stifled a giggle and turned it into a sneeze. "I'm
sorry—what a fearful thing to ask!''

"Yes—most of my wardrobe is like that," Hester replied with
an amusing smile. "All dark greens and very tired-looking blues—like faded
ink. Will they do?"

"Perfectly—come!"

* * * * *

Menard drove the three of them in the open trap, bowling along the
carriageway through the park towards the edge of the home estate and across
heavy cornfields towards the village and the church spire beyond the slow swell
of the hill. He obviously enjoyed managing the horse and did it with the skill
of one who is long practiced. He did not even try to make conversation,
supposing the loveliness of the land, the sky and the trees would be enough for
them, as it was for him.

Hester sat watching him, leaving Rosamond and Fabia to converse. She
looked at his powerful hands holding the reins lightly, at the ease of his
balance and the obvious reticence in his expression. The daily round of duties
in the estate was no imprisonment to him; she had seen a brooding in his face
occasionally in the time she had been at Shelburne, sometimes anger, sometimes
a stiffness and a jumpiness of the muscles which made her think of officers
she had seen the night before battle, but it was when they were all at table,
with Fabia's conversation betraying the ache of loneliness underneath as if
Joscelin had been the only person she had totally and completely loved.

The first house they called at was that of a farm laborer on the edge of
the village, a tiny cottage, one room downstairs crowded with a sunburned,
shabby woman and seven children all sharing a loaf of bread spread with pork
drippings. Their thin, dusty legs, barefooted, splayed out beneath simple
smocks and they were obviously in from working in the garden or fields. Even
the youngest, who looked no more than three or four, had fruit stains on her
fingers where she had been harvesting.

Fabia asked questions and passed out practical advice on financial
management and how to treat croup which the woman received in polite silence.
Hester blushed for the condescension of it, and then realized it had been a way
of life with little substantial variation for over a thousand years, and both
parties were comfortable with its familiarity; and she had nothing more
certain to put in its place.

Rosamond spoke with the eldest girl, and took the wide pink ribbon off
her own hat and gave it to her, tying it around the child's hair to her shy
delight.

Menard stood patiently by the horse, talking to it in a low voice for a
few moments, then falling into a comfortable silence. The sunlight on his face
showed the fine lines of anxiety around his eyes and mouth, and the deeper
marks of pain. Here in the rich land with its great trees, the wind and the
fertile earth he was relaxed, and Hester saw a glimpse of a quite different man
from the stolid, resentful second son he appeared at Shelburne Hall. She
wondered if Fabia had ever allowed herself to see it. Or was the laughing charm
of Joscelin always in its light?

The second call was similar in essence, although the family was composed
of an elderly woman with no teeth and an old man who was either drunk or had
suffered some seizure which impaired both his speech and his movement.

Fabia spoke to him briskly with words of impersonal encouragement, which
he ignored, making a face at her when her back was turned, and the old woman
bobbed a

curtsy, accepted two jars of lemon curd, and once again they climbed
into the trap and were on their way.

Menard left them to go out into the fields, high with ripe corn, the
reapers already digging the sickles deep, the sun hot on their backs, arms
burned, sweat running freely. There was much talk of weather, time, the quarter
of the wind, and when the rain would break. The smell of the grain and the
broken straw in the heat was one of the sweetest things Hester had ever known.
She stood in the brilliant light with her face lifted to the sky, the heat tingling
on her skin, and gazed across the dark gold of the land—and thought of those
who had been willing to die for it—and prayed that the heirs to so much
treasured it deeply enough, to see it with the body and with the heart as well.

Luncheon was another matter altogether. They were received courteously
enough until General Wadham saw Hester, then his florid face stiffened and his
manner became exaggeratedly formal.

"Good morning, Miss Latterly. How good of you to call. Ursula will
be delighted that you are able to join us for luncheon."

"Thank you, sir," she replied equally gravely. "You are
very generous."

Ursula did not look particularly delighted to see them at all, and was
unable to hide her chagrin that Menard had seen fit to be out with the
harvesters instead of here at the dining room table.

Luncheon was a light meal: poached river fish with caper sauce, cold
game pie and vegetables, then a sorbet and a selection of fruit, followed by an
excellent Stilton cheese.

General Wadham had obviously neither forgotten nor forgiven his rout by
Hester on their previous meeting. His chill, rather glassy eye met hers over
the cruet sets a number of times before he actually joined battle in a lull
between Fabia's comments on the roses and Ursula's speculations as to whether
Mr. Danbury would marry Miss Fothergill or Miss Ames.

"Miss Ames is a fine young woman," the general remarked,
looking at Hester. "Most accomplished horsewoman, rides to hounds like a
man. Courage. And handsome too, dashed handsome." He looked at Hester's
dark green dress sourly. "Grandfather died in the Peninsular War—at
Corunna—1810. Don't suppose you were there too, were you, Miss Latterly? Bit
before your time, eh?" He smiled, as if he had intended it to be
good-natured.

"1809," Hester corrected him. "It was before Talavera and
after Vimiero and the Convention of Cintra. Otherwise you are perfectly
correct—I was not there."

The general's face was scarlet. He swallowed a fish bone and choked into
his napkin.

Fabia, white with fury, passed him a glass of water.

Hester, knowing better, removed it instantly and replaced it with
bread.

The general took the bread and the bone was satisfactorily coated with
it and passed down his throat.

"Thank you," he said freezingly, and then took the water also.

"I am happy to be of assistance," Hester replied sweetly.
"It is most unpleasant to swallow a bone, and so easily done, even in the
best of fish—and this is delicious."

Fabia muttered something blasphemous and inaudible under her breath and
Rosamond launched into a sudden and overenthusiastic recollection of the
Vicar's midsummer garden party.

Afterwards, when Fabia had elected to remain with Ursula and the
general, and Rosamond hurried Hester out to the trap to resume their visiting
of the poor, she whispered to her rapidly and with a little self-consciousness.

"That was awful. Sometimes you remind me of Josce-lin. He used to
make me laugh like that."

"I didn't notice you laughing," Hester said honestly,

climbing up into the trap after her and forgetting to arrange her
skirts.

"Of course not." Rosamond took the reins and slapped the horse
forward. "It would never do to be seen. You will come again some time,
won't you?"

"I am not at all sure I shall be asked," Hester said ruefully.

"Yes you will—Aunt Callandra will ask you. She likes you very
much—and I think sometimes she gets bored with us here. Did you know Colonel
Daviot?"

"No." For the first time Hester regretted that she had not.
She had seen his portrait, but that was all; he had been a stocky, upright man
with a strong-featured face, full of wit and temper. "No, I didn't."

Rosamond urged the horse faster and they careered along the track, the
wheels bouncing over the ridges.